


Gone Was the Ninth

by i_am_still_bb



Series: Gathering FiKi - WinterFRE 2020 [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Unrelated Fíli and Kíli, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22686709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_still_bb/pseuds/i_am_still_bb
Summary: Fili is marching north with the Ninth. They left Vallum Antonini behind the day before, and none of them now what is coming. But Cilead does.Now withNEWandIMPROVEDLatin thanks to the lovely autumn_northwind!
Relationships: Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Series: Gathering FiKi - WinterFRE 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600333
Comments: 26
Kudos: 31
Collections: GatheringFiKi - Winter FRE 2020





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts).



> I changed the spelling of Kili’s name for the story. Its Cilead and it is pronounced the same.
> 
> What I remember of 8 years of Classical Latin _may_ have been exhausted in writing this.
> 
> For Linane who wanted some Romans.

Fili struggles to remove his wet and dented cuirass. His numb fingers slip on the leather ties that he meticulously maintains. The wetness is thick and slick with gelatinous patches that he refuses to think about.

“Here, lad, let me help you with that.”

Dwalin steps close and pushes Fili’s shaking hands away.

“You’ll have to repair this,” Dwalin says looking at the sharp dent in one place. It causes the damaged plate and those adjacent to it to no longer easily fold and slide over one another. 

Fili nods noncommittally; his eyes are far away. The sharp tang of steel, blood, and woodsmoke surrounds him.

The desire to go home wells in his chest; the desire to go somewhere where the smells of flames and metals are comforting and homely. Where fire warms his mother’s well-appointed home in  _ Castra Bonnensia _ and heats the forge outside where he had spent many long hours. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” Dwalin’s voice cuts through Fili’s haze for a moment. 

“Thanks.” Fili’s voice is rough.

He is grateful that his uncle was able to pull what strings he could to make sure that Fili would be in a century with men from his part of the world. Thorin had tried to get Fili assigned to a legion near Rome; safe and far from the building tensions on the borders of the empire. Any posting that was not on the frontier was safe. Rome was comfortable and they had no significant enemies. There were only those like the local tribes who refused to submit to the Empire.

It was not unheard of for family members to find themselves in the same legion, the same cohort, the same century, or even the same tent party. Fili thinks of Dwalin and his brother Balin, of the three brothers in their cohort, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur. Thorin had wanted to have Fili assigned to the VIII Augusta, the legion he commanded, in Argentorate, Gaul, or to the Praetorian Guard.

He was unsuccessful on both counts. Thorin had not exactly supported the current emperor early on, and the emperor had a long memory. He was not about to allow Thorin to gather his family and friends around him, just in case. Thorin had been able to ensure that Dwalin–one of his long term friends–was in the same century so that someone would be there to watch Fili’s back. And that was how Fili, named Felix because his parents could believe their luck when he had been conceived, found himself stationed in Eboracum, Britannia; the edge of the world; hell.

Well, not quite hell.

At least not now.

* * *

_ Fili’s hand drops to the wooden handle of his sword. _

_ “Who’s out there?” he hisses. He dare not speak any louder. It would not the first time if it was an animal in the brush and he was overreacting.  _

_ No one speaks, and the rustling ceases. Fili straightens from his defensive crouch and loosens his grip on the sword, but his eyes still strain to see anything in the darkness that lingers on the far edges of firelight. He breathes deeply to calm his pounding heart.  _

_ He drops his head back and closes his eyes. He quietly tells himself that it was nothing.  _

_ When he opened his eyes a flash on the edge of his vision has him swearing and reaching of sword, but before he can loosen it from its sheath, he finds himself standing face to face with the man responsible for the noises in the forest. _

_ His dark hair hangs loose around his shoulders. His chest is bare, and streaks of dirt obscure the blue lines that swirl across his pale skin. _

* * *

Fili rolls his shoulders stiffly. “How’d you make out?”

Dwalin shrugs. “A few bruises, nothing major. None of the bastards even got close to getting a swing at me.”

Fili nods and his gaze slides away, “I got distracted, and…” he gestures to the cuirass and spreads his hand.

Dwalin’s hand on his head drags him back into the conversation. Dwalin pulls him close. “You can’t get distracted like that.” His tone and his face are grave. “Not here, not north of the Vallum Antonini, not ever.”

“I know.” Fili does not meet Dwalin’s gaze; his cheeks flush.

“I mean it,” Dwalin says seriously. “I don’t want to be responsible for writing to your uncle. I also cannot be responsible for what he would do. He might drag his whole damn legion up here against orders.”

Fili huffs a laugh. Thorin would do just that. It was only Thorin’s skill in battle and commanding his troops that had landed him as Legate. “I’ll do my best to make sure that you don’t have to worry about my uncle.”

“Good.” 

Dwalin returns to inspecting his own armor. He is oiling the leather fastenings when he speaks again. “It was that boy, wasn’t it?”

“Hmm?” Fili is stretched out on his bedroll. He looks towards Dwalin with heavy lidded eyes that threaten to drag him under at any moment.

“What distracted you–it was that Pictish boy wasn’t it?” Dwalin’s gaze fixes on Fili.

“His name is Cilead,” Fili says thickly.

* * *

_ Fili had stumbled over the other man’s name the first several times he tried to pronounce it. And he would occasionally get it wrong every once in a while, in the following weeks. Cilead’s Latin was halting and thickly accented. The harsh sound on the end of Felix was swallowed in his mouth resulting in a name that was softer and quite different from the one that Fili had grown up with. _

_ “Close,” Cilead says with a smile. _

_ Fili rolls onto his back in the grass. “I’m never going to get it.” He squirms away when Cilead pokes him in the ribs. He closes his eyes against the harsh, low light of the sun.  _

_ “You’ll get it.” _

_ “I doubt it,” Fili pouts. _

_ Cilead’s eyebrow quirks suggestively. “Maybe you need an incentive?”  _

_ Fili opens his eyes, “Oh?” _

* * *

Fili is jerked from his memories when Dwalin’s foot shoves him. The other men have returned to the shared tent and are quietly going to about their own business or laughing quietly together. 

“See, distracted,” Dwalin says matter-of-factly. “This isn’t good for you. Not up here.”

Fili shrugs. “I’m going to the praetorium.” He pushes himself to his feet and walks out into the light rain that has started to fall. 

* * *

_ “Why are you so upset?” Cilead asks from his perch in the spreading branches of a yew tree. _

_ Fili pulls his cloak tightly around his shoulders and looks up at Cilead, “Why is it always raining?” _

_ “It’s only Taranis,” Cilead says simply leaning back to look up through the branches of the broad tree. “And this is a good rain.” He holds his hand out to catch some of the rain dripping from the needles of the tree, but he does not elaborate on what makes it a good rain. _

_ Fili shuffles his feet in the damp grass. “Why don’t you come down here?” _

_ Cilead’s stare reveals what he thinks of that particular question. “It’s raining. See the puddles. No puddles up here.” _

_ Fili releases his grip on his cloak and reaches for the trunk of the tree. _

* * *

Torches hiss in the rain and the roads between the white tents are practically empty as the soldiers have retreated to the warm, relative safety of their tents. 

Fili’s skin rises in goosebumps in the cold rain, but he thinks of Taranis rather than cursing the damp as he would have done once. The  _ praetorium _ is in the center of the marching camp. It is the officer’s headquarters, but it is also where the standards are stored in their own tent. He pushes the flap aside and finds it nearly empty. Another soldier is placing an object at the base of the aquila, which stands in the center of several poles topped with the signs that identify their legion. There is their eagle, ten  _ signums _ , one for each cohort, their spear heads, gold-toned hands, and  _ philarea _ flashing in the firelight, the red signum with its image of bull flutters gently. 

At the feet of the standards are a myriad of objects that glisten darkly. Some have been hastily wiped cleaned, but some are still wet with the blood of their previous owners. He had never liked stripping dead enemies of their earthly goods. He always thought of how devastated his mother would be if he was killed and there was nothing to send back to her. He twists the silver signet ring on his pinky. The stiff flesh with whorls of blue paint and ink is always reluctant to relinquish its earthly belongings.

* * *

_ Fili traces Cilead’s tattoos with a finger. “What are they?” _

_ It is a rare warm and sunny day near Eboracum and they are taking advantage of it having ridden far out into the moors. Cilead raises up onto an elbow. “Hm?” _

_ “Or are they just patterns?” Fili’s eyes flick up to meet Cilead’s for a moment. _

_ “This one is a raven,” Cilead gestures.  _

_ Fili squints and furrows his eyebrows in confusion. _

_ Cilead points, “See. Here is the head with its beak and an eye…” _

_ As Cilead speaks the animals appear before Fili’s eyes. “They’re beautiful,” he breathes and presses a gentle kiss to Cilead’s ribs where the raven rests.  _

_ Cilead chuckles softly and a warm shiver of pleasure ripples down Fili’s spine. _

_ Now Fili’s lips trace the entrancing coils as they define and obscure the lines of Cilead’s chest, his abdomen, and lower. _

* * *

A cold, painful, shiver wracks Fili’s body.

He turns away.

His fingers find the amulet his mother gave him before he left home. He kept it tucked beneath his tunic—out of sight. She had told him about these men who came to their neighborhood and told everyone about a god who claimed that he was the only God. Fili did not believe it—how could there only be one—but he had accepted her gift and her insistence that it would help keep him safe. From what he had heard this new religion that his mother spoke of was less secretive and bloody than Mithraism, a monotheistic religion that was incredibly popular among his fellow soldiers. They had even sacrificed a white bull in the middle of Eboracum the previous summer. Despite this Fili had told his mother to keep her ideas to herself; just in case.

Thoughts of home fills him with a new resolve, and a desire for a place where he feels safe. And that is not here in the marching camp.

He strides purposefully towards the  _ Porta Principalis Dextra _ where he finds Bifur and Bofur on guard. Bofur deftly sweeps away the dice away in an effort to look busy and official.

“Oi, it’s only you!” Bofur smiles and drops the dice back to the overturned tree trunk. “Fancy a game?”

“Not today.”

“You could double your paycheck,” Bofur replies with an enticing wiggle of his eyebrows.

Fili snorts. “Or I could lose my paycheck and that is far more likely.”

“Oh, well then,” Bofur props his feet up and looks to his brother for a second, “What brings you out of your tent then?

* * *

The sound of the light rain changed when Fili slipped into the forest. There was the hollow sound of heavy, gathered drops of rain hitting broad leaves; the swish of wet grass and fallen leaves from previous years as Fili’s feet part them to make room for themselves. When he first arrived in Britannia the dark forests unsettled him. But they had become home. He feels a deep sense of peace when he stands under the broad branches of yew and oak.

He does not look for Cilead.

Cilead always finds him.

_ Always _ .

Fili never wonders how that is, but he does appreciate it. 

He does hope that Cilead is already waiting for him. Bofur could only cover for Fili for so long and his watch did not last all night. 

“Fili,” Cilead’s voice breaks the quiet of the forest.

Fili lets go of the breath that he had not realized that he was holding. 

Cilead’s clothes are dirty. He clearly did not take the time to clean up after the skirmish that afternoon. Amid the streaks of dirt and sweat the white bandage on Cilead’s arm stands out; bright in the darkness.

Fili touches Cilead’s bandage, a concerned expression on his face.

Cilead shrugs and shakes his head. “Not bad.”

Fili nods. He suspects that it is worse than Cilead is letting on, but he can be sure that it is not life threatening. Fili looks closer; he sees the smudges of blue where the paint had not been thoroughly removed. He rubs at one such smudge splashed across Cilead’s cheekbone alongside a purpling bruise.

Cilead jerks away. 

“Et tu?” Cilead pulls at Fili’s stained and dirty red tunic. “Videor te… ,” he says haltingingly, “percussit.”  _ And you? I saw you get hit. _

“Armorum meorum,” Fili explains gesturing to his torso. “My armor. I will have to fix it, but I am fine if a bit bruised.”

Cilead’s face darkens. “I didn’t see who did it, but if I had …”

Fili shakes his head sadly. “I would be walking through battles unscathed and then people would know and this would have to end. I would be watched at the very least and at the worse they would assume that I was passing information along.”

“You should stay with me.”

“Non possum.  _ I can’t, _ ” Fili shakes his head. 

“Sed,” Cilead touches Fili’s cheek. “Custodiat te possem.  _ But I could protect you.” _

Fili’s smile is sad. He shakes his head. 

He traces Cilead’s lower lip with his thumb. “We’re together now. Can we just focus on that?” 

Cilead nods, but it is clear that he is not about to let the topic go. It has come up with increasing frequency over the past few weeks. But for now, they set that argument aside.

Their joining is fierce with more than a dash of pain on both sides. Fili’s fingers dig bruises into Cilead’s thighs. Cilead almost draws blood when he bites down on Fili’s shoulder to muffle his cries. They both seek affirmation that they are each alive and breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know its a bit rough. I'll be going back through it soon, but I just needed to get it out of my Google docs so I can think about other stories.


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili and Cilead revisit an oft repeated conversation, but this time with different information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no working knowledge of Pictish (if there is any functional knowledge of the language) so I have used my smattering of Gàidhlig in its place.

The rain stops sometime before they do and they are stretched out on the ground; their discarded clothes keeping the greater part of the dampness at bay.

Fili idly plays with Cilead’s hair and looks up to the still dripping trees. “I need to go soon. Bofur won’t be on watch all night.”

Cilead traces his foot up and down Fili’s calf. “Cum ego mansitum.  _ You should stay with me. _ ”

Fili sits up abruptly. “Non possum scis.  _ You know I cannot. _ ”

“Non facio.  _ I do not. _ ”

Fili draws his knees to his chest and rests his forehead against them. “It’s just,” he pauses. “There are rules.”

“Rules are made to be broken,” Cilead says simply. He rolls onto his back with his hands tucked behind his head.

Fili glances at Cilead who is unashamed in his nakedness. He wants to run his fingers up Cilead’s chest; tangles his fingers in the dark hair; kiss him until they both forget everything else. But most of all he does not want to fight; not here. Not when his legion was moving against Cilead’s people and they could each find themselves alone after a battle. 

“Non intellegetis.  _ You do not understand. _ ”

Cilead rolls onto his side so that he is facing the place where Fili had been laying, but now all he can see of Fili is his back. Cilead’s fingers trail over the bare skin of Fili’s back. “Sic fac me intelligere.  _ So make me understand. _ ”

Fili groans. “Difficile est,” he mumbles to his knees. “ _ It is difficult. _ ”

“Cognosco.  _ Try. _ ”

“I—” Fili sighs. “I suppose that I should start with the parts that are easier to explain.”

Cilead nods silently; he continues to rub Fili’s back. 

“ _ If _ I were to leave it would be a crime. If I were caught—”

Cilead interrupts, “But you wouldn’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Fili squeezes his eyes shut, “ _ If _ I were caught I would be punished as would anyone who helped me. If I were an officer there would be two possible outcomes. One would be exile. I would be stripped of my citizenship and forced to leave the empire. I would not be allowed to return. The other outcome would be death, but it would be a swift, clean death.”

“You’re not an officer.”

“I am not. For me the only outcome would be death,” Fili swallows, “and it would not be clean. I did hear of someone who deserted and was not killed; he was beaten and then sold in to slavery as an oarsman on a galley and that is a death sentence of its own.”

“You would not be caught.” Cilead’s voice is quiet, but the ferocity is unmistakable. 

Fili does not respond. The only noise is the rustle of wet leaves around them and the distant, muffled sounds from the marching camp, which never truly sleeps. 

“I would make sure of it.”

Fili nods silently. He breathes deeply before continuing. “I also have my family to consider. After Emperor Domitian killed himself my uncle, a legate in Gaul, backed a general by the name of Caelinus, but not all of the legions supported Caelinus, some also backed Septimus, a general in charge of the legions in Parthia. It was said that Septimus had never lost a battle; that he had never lost a legion. There was a civil war and Septimus’ supporters beat Caelinus’. I’m not sure how my uncle was able to keep his position, but he did. But he has been out of favor since then. I don’t know what would happen to him or my mother if I were to desert. It could prove to be the decisive incident in the balancing game that Thorin plays.”

Cilead hums; his dark eyes watching Fili’s back, which tenses as he speaks. 

Fili jerks away when Cilead’s fingers catch on a scab. “I have to go.” He stands abruptly and tugs his tunic from beneath Cilead’s legs. 

Cilead silently watches Fili tug the tunic over his head. He rises, pulls on his loose fitting pants, and follows Fili as he always does. When the marching camp is visible through the trees Fili stops.

“I just can’t,” he says quietly.

“Intelligo.  _ I understand, _ ” Cilead says just as quietly. “Will you come tomorrow?”

Fili’s regulation short hair glints in the diffused torchlight when he shakes his head. “I’m on watch tomorrow.”

“Hm.”

Cilead reaches for Fili’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Take care of yourself until then.”

Fili’s nod is short, but he squeezes Cilead’s hand in return. “Et tu.  _ And you. _ ”

Cilead stands in the dark shelter of the trees and watches Fili exchange a few words with the legionnaires at the gate. Cilead watches until Fili disappears behind the tall palisades. 

Cilead hears the near silent footsteps behind him.

“Ri Cilead.”

Cilead’s eyes flick in the direction of the voice, but he does not turn. 

“The wizard’s messenger arrived.”

This catches Cilead’s attention and he turns his gaze away from the Roman camp to Liam, his second on command. “What did the messenger say?”

“They’ll be in position tomorrow.”

“Tapadh leat, Liam.  _ Thank you. _ ”

Liam does not leave, but Cilead turns back to the camp and crosses his arms. Time is running out and he needs a plan. He does not think Fili is going to leave of his own free will. Cilead refuses to lose Fili because of Roman rules.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least one more chapter, maybe two. It all depends on what these two let me do. Fili, for example, insisted on this chapter, which I had no intention of writing. It was not in my notes.


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with the Wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay with this chapter. The story was finished, but I didn't like the climax. It was highly dramatic. Cilead forced the issue and played on Fili's sense of duty and honor. Fili called him a traitor. 
> 
> It worked for the characters. But it opened a new can of worms. I had told them that I require a happy ending in less than 6 chapters. They were trying their hardest not to comply.
> 
> It is finished. There is a fourth chapter and an epilogue. Keep an eye out for them over the next two days!
> 
> **Please note the new rating.**

“Finally,” Dain grunts when Cilead ducks through the low door followed by Liam. 

“I was busy,” Cilead snaps. 

A titter of whispers follows this. Cilead ignores as he picks his way to an empty spot in the smoke-filled room. Outside the sun had just risen over the jagged hills, but in here the only light comes from a central fire pit; casting deep shadows on most of those present.

The other leaders of people from the Lowlands and further north talk among themselves. Cilead does not miss the many glances sent in his direction. He has been the topic of discussion again. 

He is used to it. He took up his father’s mantle when he was barely more than a boy. There were many that thought someone more experienced should have taken Aelfred’s spot; especially given the troubled times. Only the wizard Gandalf had spoken in his defense. He is still the youngest king by many years. Many thought that someone else should have been given the job of monitoring the activities of the Eboracum legion. Someone more experienced. Someone they could fully trust. Someone that did not have his head in the clouds.

Cilead drops onto the low bench and ignores the whispers. He is here for Gandalf and his orders, not for these fishwives.

A hush falls over the group when a tall figure emerges from the shadows at the back of the tent. He steps into the firelight and the glowing orange light flickers on his grey robes giving him an ethereal appearance.

“Speak, wizard,” Ri Bran snaps. “Why have you called this war council?”

“Is it time?” A deep voice rumbles. Duncan.

Gandalf turned dark eyes hidden beneath bushy eyebrows on the first speaker. “Patience,” he snaps. He scans the crowd. His calculating gaze taking in the commanders, their second-in-commands, their sons. Many shift uncomfortably under that stare.

His chest rises, falls. “It is time.”

Cilead’s stomach clenches at the wizard’s words and the roar that erupts. He presses his feet into the wooden floor, unconsciously seeking the feel of cool grass.

“SILENCE!” Gandalf’s voice booms through the room and sparks fly from his staff as it strikes the floor.

“Prepare your men. Ready your weapons. We wait until they dismantle their camp and move on.”

Cilead clears his throat to alleviate the tightness he feels there, the constriction of his breath.

All eyes turn to him.

It is his turn to shift uncomfortably under Gandalf’s eyes. 

“Do you have something to say, Ri Cilead?”

Cilead clears his throat again. He stands. “It would be better if we waited.”

Insults roil through those present. Dain spits on the ground at Cilead’s feet. Cilead feels Liam shift behind him; clearing his clothing away from his sword, no doubt. 

He breathes deeply, the acrid taste of smoke from wet firewood burns his lungs, his eyes. “Right now, they’re strong. They are still well supplied. If we drag them further north, if we stretch out their supply lines, they will weaken.”

A few present nod their heads slightly at his words.

Cilead licks his lips and drops back onto his bench. Liam squeezes his shoulder. 

“The boy speaks sense,” Duncan grumbles. 

“We do not wait.” Gandalf says firmly.

Cilead starts to rise, “But—”

“We do not wait.” More sparks. Brighter sparks that cast shadows on the wizard’s face as he sticks out his eyebrows at Cilead. “The portents say that it must be now.  _ If _ we don’t move now then our people will die for no reason.” Gandalf’s voice rises and continues to rise. The shadows of the room seem to deepen. “We watch. We wait. When they move we attack.”

The floor and the air shake with the foot stamping and the air vibrates with their energy.

Cilead stands, but he does not move to the door as the older warriors shove past. 

When he is alone with Gandalf he turns to the wizard. “This isn’t right. You know that they are strong right now.”

Gandalf bristles, “I know what the portents say. And I know that you have grown fond of one of them. It is clouding your judgement.”

“My judgement is fine,” Cilead snaps. “I can see their supplies. I was in the battle yesterday. I  _ know _ that they are strong. It  _ will  _ be easier if they are weaker.”

Gandalf shakes his head. “If we don’t act now then it will be too late, Cilead. Are you willing to sacrifice everything your people have for a Roman?”

* * *

Cilead sits on the hill above the marching camp and watches. His horse grazes in the valley behind him and the Roman below him look like ants. But there is no sign that they are preparing to move today. They always started by breaking down the tents early in the morning.

It gives him more time.

* * *

When Fili goes on watch Cilead is waiting. He recognizes the broad, bald man that Fili is with on watch. Dwalin, someone from home, Fili had said. 

Cilead slips through the deepening shadows and waits until the ambient noise of the camp dies down. Dwalin and Fili talk quietly between themselves, while keeping a close eye on the forest that stands 10 metres away. Neither of them sees Cilead. The Romans miss so much simply because they do not know what they are looking for sometimes.

The moon eventually rises and Cilead steps away from the shadows. He knows the moment that Dwalin sees him. The large man stiffens and reaches for his sword. 

Fili holds out a hand. “Manes.  _ Wait. _ ” 

He approaches Cilead. “Quid est?  _ What is it? _ ”

“Nulla tempus.  _ There is no more time. _ ”

Fili’s jaw tightens. “Quid dicis?  _ What are you talking about? _ ”

“There is no more time,” Cilead repeats. “You cannot wait any longer.”

Realization shows on Fili’s face. “I am not waiting. I am staying.” He steps past Cilead and to the forest. 

Cilead follows.

Fili does not speak again until they are out of earshot of Dwalin. “We’ve been over this.” He shakes his head, “I will not desert.”

“There won’t be a legion left to desert!” Cilead hisses. “When you dismantle this camp they are going to attack. I cannot stall them.”

“And that’s supposed to convince me? I’m supposed to abandon them—my people, my friends, my family—because I might die?

“No.” He turns his back to Cilead. “Besides, we will turn them back. Just like we have every other time.” Fili looks over his shoulder, “It will be the same as before. And I will be fine.”

When Cilead does not respond Fili starts to walk back to the gate, to his post, to his life.

Cilead balls his hands into fists. “It won’t be the same this time.” 

Fili’s step falters, but he does not stop. He does not look back again.

* * *

Fili stands in front of the  _ praetorium _ . He had spent the rest of his shift fidgeting with his sword. He is surprised the Dwalin did not throttle him. 

_ – Do I tell Legate Livy and save the legion? Or do I protect Cilead and save his people from almost assured destruction? But there is no way that the legion will be defeated by such a small group. And they cannot have a large group. We would have seen them. We would have seen some sign of them. – _

The same question still torments him. His hand finds his sword again. He pulls it from its sheath by an inch and then slides it back home. And again. And again. Until the edge of the blade catches his finger. He puts it in his mouth without thinking; a splash of warm metal on his tongue. 

Fili pulls his bleeding finger from his mouth. He turns his back on the  _ praetorium _ and returns to his tent. He wraps himself in a blanket and tries to sleep, but Cilead’s words echo through his bones.

“It is too late.”

“It will be different this time.”

* * *

When the camp wakes they are ordered to tear it down and prepare to march again. He goes about his duties, but he keeps searching the forest and the crests of the visible hills for signs of Cilead, for signs of an imminent attack. 

But he does not see it coming. None of them do.

  
  
  



	4. Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle and its aftermath.

Horses thunder into their midst. Arrows fly. The wind whips around them; banners snap. The light rain turns into icy pellets that pierce everything in their path.

Everything quickly falls apart. No one is in formation. No one seems to be in control.

The ominous and dull thud of a sword hitting his shield vibrates through Fili’s body. He drops the shield below eye level and thrusts his sword, but the enemy skirts the wicked point. Again, the enemy hammers his heavy sword against Fili’s shield his face with its paint contorts in a snarl. Fili is forced back. One step. Then another. 

He is losing.

They are losing. 

His ears are filled by the overwhelming roar of metal on wood, metal on metal, the screams of dying horses and dying men. The shouts of orders given in haste and impossible to obey, impossible to listen to.

The lack of formation, his opponent’s longer sword, the chaos; they are losing. He is losing. He grits his teeth. They cannot lose.

_– Cilead. My mother. Thorin. –_

Fili tries again. He presses forward. His shield protecting him. He thrusts again. This time he feels the slight drag on the blade that comes with the sword sliding through flesh.

There is a flash of grim satisfaction before his nerveless fingers drop his sword.

He reaches for it, but his hand does not close correctly; his fingers will not work.. He cannot grab it. He cannot lift it.

He looks down, reaching to touch his underarm just above where his armor ends with his shield hand. His fingers come away red and slick, but there is no pain.

_– Blood. Mine? –_

He is still processing, staring at the blood on his fingers and blooming across his cuirass, when the next blow comes in; ringing off his helmet as it strikes the back of his head.

* * *

Cilead hauls in a breath. His bruised ribs creak in protest.

It is over. 

And rain has come to wash it all away. The blood thins and soaks into the earth revealing plants that will grow all the more, all the richer, for the sacrifices laid at their feet.

_– Fili. –_

He rolls over the nearest Roman soldier; seeking blonde hair and a quick smile. He does not know this face. He walks to the next soldier. And then to the next. 

_– Fili’s people. His comrades. His friends. –_

Liam joins Cilead. He moves from soldier to soldier. 

Cilead straightens. “You don’t have to.”

Liam looks at Cilead and then to the wide field and the men moving among the bodies. But they are not looking for loved ones; they are looting. “I know.” He steps to the next soldier and his ruby red crested helmet.

_– A centurion. –_

Cilead remembers Fili explaining the ranks to him in a smoke filled restaurant in late winter. “You can join the others,” he says tightly. “I will not order you to help me look.”

This time Liam meets Cilead’s eyes. Rain pings on the metal cuirasses of the Roman soldiers at their feet. “I do not help because you are my king. I help because you are my friend. You were my friend long before you became my king.”

* * *

Fili is pulled to consciousness by hands on his body. Hands that tug at him without any care. His hand is dropped into a puddle. Rain falls on everything. He shivers.

_– Taranis. –_

Another hand pushes its way under his cuirass, pushing his armor aside. 

The knot in the leather thong around his neck gives way under a sharp tug.

Sound comes next.

A disgusted voice snaps angrily in a language he does not know. “It’s only wood!” There is a small sound as the object is dropped to the ground.

Realization comes—the charm from his mother. 

“No,” he groans and reaches blindly for the amulet.

And then the pain comes.

The voices sharpen and grow louder.

Hands that had been less than gentle before, move with more intent, more violence now. He tries to focus his gaze to see the faces of the men who take the belongings of the dead, to see the low clouds and the rain that he feels on his skin. One hand hauls him into a half-seated position as the two men argue back and forth with one another. His head rolls and his helmet falls off. It lands with a wet, squelching noise in the mud.

Hands push at his _focale,_ his scarf, and his body knows what is happening before his mind catches up. He reaches out with his good arm; searching for the hand that surely holds a knife.

He finds it; the edge bites into his fingers.

Another hand there with a tight grip on his wrist and the hand that holds the knife. A voice that is sharp and angry.

Fili tugs away unsure of what is happening. But then he hears a word that he recognizes—a word that he _knows._

Cilead. 

Hands release him with a shove, and he falls back to the wet grass.

* * *

— _Cilead._ —

Fili would know his voice anywhere.

Cilead is arguing with someone; he is shouting. His voice rising in the language with its soft, rounded sounds. Fili opens his eyes. The room is dim with a thatched roof. He turns his head. Several people block his view of the door where there is bright sunlight. 

“Cilead…” He breathes out. His fingers brush the hem of Cilead’s tunic.

* * *

“Of course, I know he’s a Roman!” Cilead snaps impatiently at the woman and her basket of herbs. “Why should that mean that you won’t treat him?”

“They’re hungry wolves. They take whatever they want from us,” she spits on the ground. 

Liam moves quickly to stop Cilead from grabbing the woman’s clothing and shaking her like a ragdoll.

A soft voice, barely audible, “Cilead…”

Cilead spins. He drops to the low chair and gathers Fili’s hand into his own. He presses a kiss to Fili’s overly warm and damp skin. “Oh, gods, Fili.”

Fili’s blue eyes are clouded. “Where … What happened?”

Cilead drops his gaze. “The battle happened. You were hurt,” Cilead instinctively reaches out, but does not touch the angry, red wound that has begun to swell and stink. “But you’re going to be okay. I will make sure of it.”

Fili nods. This rise and fall of his chest is shallow. “Water?”

“Of course.” Cilead steps out of the house with the intention of getting water, but as soon as he is clear of the doorway he stops. Hands on his hips, he drops his head back and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Somehow it was harder now that Fili was awake. It had been easier when Cilead had not had to face his failure.

* * *

Two more days pass and Cilead can not find anyone that he can convince, threaten, or pay to treat Fili. After Cilead returned with the water Fili drank some and drifted off again.

Since then his skin grew paler, his fever rose, but he had not woken again. And his sleep was fitful.

Cilead had not eaten. He had not left Fili’s side. Liam performs anything that was asked of Cilead and provides murderous looks whenever anyone said anything about Cilead not being present or about his “pet Roman.”

After those two days Gandalf enters the small house, his presence fills the whole space, even the chinks in the daub. Cilead sits by Fili’s side while Liam stands in the corner by the door. Cilead holds Fili’s hand clenched between his own and presses it to his forehead. He rocks slightly and sings softly to himself and to Fili.

“How is he?”

Cilead does not look up.

“Worse,” he answers, his voice thick with emotion.

Gandalf sheds his cloak and steps closer to examine the wound.

* * *

Fili cries and jerks away from the probing touch.

A dark figure leans over him. He can hear the rush of rain on the thatch roof. 

Fili weakly holds his hand up. “Please, Mercury, no. I am not ready.”

He tries to remember what Cilead calls Mercury, in case it matters.

“Ego sum paratus, Lugh. _I’m not ready, Lugh_.”

* * *

“… Lugh.”

Gandalf raises his eyebrows to look at Cilead. “He thinks he’s dying.”

Cilead turns away. “Isn’t he? No one will help him. And I don’t know how. And no one will tell me how,” he chokes. 

Gandalf humphs and pulls at the skin around the wound once more eliciting more pleadings and cries from Fili.

“Do you have to do that?” Cilead snaps. “He is in enough pain already! Just let him go in the little peace he can have!”

Gandalf’s stern gaze meets Cilead’s heated one. “He does not have to die.”

“What?” Cilead says softly on an exhale.

“I know how the Romans treat these wounds. It would give him a chance.”

“What do you need?”

“I have it with me. You and your man,” he nods to Liam, “will need to hold him so he does not move overly much.”

Cilead quickly moves to Fili’s shoulders and Liam takes a spot at Fili’s feet while Gandalf pulls items from the folds of his clothing—a knife, strips of linen, a bottle, a sponge, a needle and thread.

“What is that?” Cilead nods to the bottle.

Gandalf does not answer. He picks up the knife and sets it to the wound.

Fili flinches. 

Cilead tightens his grip. 

Fili cries out when the wound is lanced; arching against Gandalf’s steady hands and Cilead’s shaking ones.

“I said _hold him_ ,” Gandalf bites.

Gandalf opens the bottle and the sharp smell of vinegar escapes. He soaks the sponge and presses it to the wound and inside the wound. 

Fili pulls away with a scream. He presses his face into Cilead’s shoulder and sobs, “Quaeso, no! Nolo illud facio. Quaeso, ne feceris. Cilead, amabo te! _Please, no! I don’t want it. Please, don’t. Cilead, please!_ ”

Cilead presses his forehead to Fili’s. He closes his eyes, so he does not have to see Gandalf’s sure movements that only seem to cause more pain. Tears roll down his nose to drip into Fili’s hair.

“Doleo. Est mea culpa. Non potui non custodiat te. _I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I could not protect you,_ ” he whispers hoarsely. 

* * *

After Gandalf is finished and Fili’s chest is bound is layers of linen stripes Fili sleeps again, but the lines of pain still mar his face. Cilead traces those lines with a finger. Will they go away? Or will they become permanent scars, eternal reminders of that day and the countless dead and gone.

Cilead is no better with a pinched look to his normally affable expression and dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Will he be okay?”

“I did what the Romans would have done. Their treatments are very effective. But they would have done it sooner.”

Cilead looks down at Fili’s hand, once again held in his own. His shoulders shudder.

Gandalf’s face softens. “It is his best shot. Keep the bandages clean and the wound dry and it is very likely that he will recover.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a huge beefy note about Roman syncretism and how they created god smoothies and how it functioned for Romans, non-Romans, and commerce. It was a great note. Then it was eaten. 
> 
> Long story short: Lugus / Lugh was a god in Gaul and the British Isles. When the Romans arrived they equated him with Mercury because of Lugus' attributes or his role in the pantheon. They smashed the two together and Lugus would take on the roles and attributes of Mercury. Mercury was the god responsible for ferrying dead souls to the next life, and Lugus takes on that role as well.


	5. Chapter V

It is raining again on the first day the Cilead lets Fili get up, the first day that he cannot easily push Fili back down, the first day that Fili is strong enough to fight back. Fili’s cloak is too long, and the shoulders of his borrowed tunic are too wide, but anything was better than his red and bloodstained tunic.

“We don’t have to go,” Cilead says from his perch in the back of the small house.

Fili does not look back. “It has been too long already. And your people are ready to return home. And I’m sure the owner of this house would like it back.”

“They will not mind another few days.”

Fili shrugs; green wool ripples from his shoulders. “It’s still been too long.”

Cilead sighs and rises to his feet. “I will take you there.”

Once mounted Fili gathers the reins in his left hand. His right hand responds weakly and when he had questioned the wizard about it he had just shrugged and said that it might get better with time, but it might not.

The horse blows air and dances to the side. Fili clenches his knees, tightens his grip, and says some soothing words. The horse snorts and her eyes roll.

Cilead steps close, hand to the horse’s nose, and whispers to her; calming her. He looks up to Fili with a small smile, “I’ll have to teach you some more words. I don’t think she’s all that inclined to learn a new language.” 

Fili looks away.

Cilead sighs, “She’ll be okay. She’ll follow Dergo once we get moving.”

Fili watches the scenery and takes note of the geography as they go. “Were you always this far away?”

Cilead looks over his shoulder, “If we had stayed closer your scouts would have seen us.”

They skirt around the base of a low mountain with reddish-brown crags protruding from its heights. “How,” Fili pauses and licks his lips. “How did you get me this far.”

Cilead’s shoulders slump, “I don’t remember.” He sighs and brings Dergo to a stop and waits until Fili’s mare comes a long side. 

Fili frowns and is about to ask a question when Cilead speaks.

“I remember the battle and looking for you. Liam helped. I remember him shouting when he found you.”

* * *

_ “Fili!” _

_ Cilead drops to the ground by Fili’s side, his feet skidding on the wet grass. “No, no, no, no, no…” He cups Fili’s cheek in his palm, “Fili?” _

_ Cilead turns his attention to injuries and something in the grass catches his eye. _

_ He grabs it and spins on the two looters who are trying to make a sneaky escape. “What else did you take?” he snaps, rising to his feet. _

_ The older man wrinkles his nose. “Nothing that wasn’t mine to take.” _

_ Cilead has a fistful of the man’s tunic. “Give. It. Back. Or I’ll make you regret it.” _

_ “Just give it to him,” the younger of the two mutters. _

_ “It’s our right to take what ever we want from the dead,” the man says acidly as he pulls out the ring he had taken. _

_ Cilead snatches it from the man’s open palm, “He’s not dead.” _

_ “But he will be.” _

_ Cilead tucks the ring away with the amulet and turns back to Liam who was making quick work of Fili’s armor to reveal the wound. Together they pull Fili’s tunic aside, Cilead grimacing when dried blood holds it to the skin. It is still bleeding. _

_ “Give me that,” Cilead gestures to the discarded  _ focale _.  _

_ He leans over Fili and presses the cloth to the wound and is heartened to see Fili respond. “You better not die on me.  _ _ Non tamen complevit vobiscum.  _ I’m not finished with you yet _.”  _

_ Sitting up he speaks to Liam, “Find Gandalf and bring him here.” _

_ “He’s already left, Ri Cilead.” _

_ Cilead looks up sharply. “What do you mean ‘he’s already left?’” _

_ “He left before the battle even started. He said that his work here was finished.” _

_ Cilead looks down at Fili and cloth that is already soaked with blood; it seeps between his fingers and into the lines of his skin. _

* * *

“We’re here.” Cilead stops his horse and frowns at the field. It brings back some of the memories of that day.

Fili winces when he dismounts.

“We don’t have to do this. We can go back.”

Fili shakes his head and looks to his feet before looking in the direction that Cilead had pointed. The wind changes and it carries the smell of the battlefield to them. The horses shift nervously.

He walks among those left behind and Cilead follows. Fili crouches down and lifts a helmet that had been dropped. He looks at it and then to a fallen soldier. “It’s too late,” he says quietly. His shoulders slump.

“Too late for what?” 

Fili turns. “To find anyone. To find Dwalin and the others.”

“Some escaped,” Cilead says quietly. “We did not give chase. It was over. We had won; we had the Eagle.”

“What happened to it?”

“It was, uh, melted down and cast into rings. The members of the council each got one.” Cilead holds up his hand sheepishly.

“Oh.”

Cilead steps close and takes the helmet from Fili. He turns it over in his hands. “What would you have done if you could find them?”

Fili’s breath shakes on the exhale. “I would have burned them. I would have given them a proper funeral.”

“They may have escaped,” Cilead offers quietly.

“All of them?” Fili's laugh is without mirth. “No. For all I know they’re all dead. And that’s what everyone will think of me. Dead and gone.”

“Doleo.  _ I’m sorry. _ ” 

Fili takes the helmet back and throws it as hard as he can; grimacing when it pulls at his still healing wound. He breathes heavily through his nose, but slowly his breath softens.

“It’s not your fault.” He turns, “And I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you.”

Cilead steps close, presses his forehead to Fili’s, and closes his eyes. “I understand. I was scared of losing you. And I almost did.”

“I’ll try not to get myself stabbed in the future.”

Cilead presses closer and wraps an arm tightly around Fili’s neck and shoulders.

Fili takes Cilead’s hand in his right and gives it a small squeeze. “Take me home.”


End file.
